


a time to every purpose (under heaven)

by s_t_c_s



Series: to everything there is a season [2]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: (angsty) sex dreams, Angst, Competitive Nonsense, Did I mention angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Idiots, Masturbation, POV Rio (Good Girls), Pigtail Pulling, Revenge, Rio is obsessed with the sound of his own name, Rio sounds a little like he has a foot fetish, Rio/OFC - kinda, Seduction, Sexual Fantasy, Technically bed sharing, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a little Rio/Rhea and maybe the teeniest glimmer of Beth/Rhea, canon-typical threats, recollections/discussions/fantasies of unprotected sex, sexual favours, some Mick!, truly the dumbest bitches, two idiots with oral fixations, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23662729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_t_c_s/pseuds/s_t_c_s
Summary: Set after: A time to refrain (from embracing), and within a fairly nebulous s3.Rio gets a bit obsessed with a vengeful Idea. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Series: to everything there is a season [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703800
Comments: 34
Kudos: 272





	a time to every purpose (under heaven)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxmagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxmagpie/gifts).



> This is part of the same series as A time to refrain (from embracing). I don't think you neeeeed to read that first, but it'll probably make more sense if you do (also that's pretty short, and very angsty and beth POV).
> 
> Sex is exchanged for, if not money then something of that ilk in this story. If that's a hard no for you, then I don't think this is for you.
> 
> Also Rio at one point really wants to hit Beth, but obviously doesn't (mostly cos he thinks she'd win in a fight). Also Rio has hit a woman. She's a lot tougher than him.

It starts as merely a stray pleasing notion. The thought of getting Elizabeth all riled up, turning her down. It wouldn’t make up for any of it, obviously. But he wants to see her upset. Mortified. Broken. Just for the fuck of it.

He _knows_ he can get her desperate for him, is the thing.

Ain’t like he’d been obsessing over that truth. Rio’d had a very specific plan in store for her, plenty time to dwell with it while Turner had him squirrelled away too. Back when his mind had been elegant with focus – consumed from sleek rage and the glittery yearning for vengeance.

That went to... sheer shit. He’s still not clear whether he believes her – the pregnancy, then sudden lack of one, too convenient; perfectly paced. But the question mark doesn’t rate huge credit. Cos the way Elizabeth dashed at that string sent all them visceral memories tumbling straight for him.

It fucking complicates matters. Hard to cast her as pure nemesis when a single glimpse impels, _implores_ , him to relive biting at her belly before loping lower, Elizabeth bucking every which way upon her sheets at simply the initial contact of his tongue. The _noises_ she made that first point he ever thrust inside her, and how she formed ‘em again, only _more_ and slower (though not much louder) during the bouts in her bedroom. That ease with which she broke apart for him, _every fucking time_.

He hates her. That wedge is effortless. She tried to _kill_ him. It’s not like he’s got any soft spots left for Elizabeth. But – when he looks at her he _remembers_ all of it and– _Shit_. What’s he gonna do, shoot her in the head? Rio recalls, too well, sipping at her lips; the enlightening of their authentic taste. Even the fact that the reverse is true, and that it didn’t fucking stop her, hardly fixes lodging muzzle on her temple, fluidly fingering the trigger, much less fucked up.

Lingering amongst the recollections though, that’s what makes him know it. For certain.

Cos _she_ was always the one luring him places, right. Behind doors. Into her greedy, leaking cunt. He never did shit like that. Kept it in his fucking pants. Mouth. Pockets. That day she broke in, pouring boudoir eyes at his lips, he simply told her to fuck off. _She’s_ the one with the impulse control woes.

And Elizabeth ain’t special – that’s not why he’s got every detail to hand. He can call to mind most fucks he’s had. At least the sober, or thereabouts, ones. The toes sucked, breasts branded. From the first girl he kissed – later his first pussy eaten. Lou wasn't his inaugral lay though – nah, that was between them other two milestones. _She_ was a couple years older and, really, he was just hanging on for the ride. Through it all to the last woman he let take him to bed. Maybe not identities, okay, but the rest he can summon with ease.

It’s not cos he determinedly folds the moments away for spank bank material – though he’s been holed up enough times to appreciate those merits too. Nah, he’s just – like that. Retains most of everything. Is organised. Controlled. _Attendant_. It’s why he’s good at what he does. Elizabeth on the other foot – shit, he ain’t convinced she remembers as much as his damn _name_.

And that’ll be her downfall. Cos Rio perceives her playbook. Has her tells. Is terribly well informed on her inability, or amateur unwillingness, to _learn_. He’s beyond capable of bending such a foe to his designs.

That's how it instigates. The idling idea mutates into more of a – fantasy proper, though. Somewhere along the line.

*

Rio still stands too close. Touches her – maybe more than in the before. But, whatever, she had no problem pushing _through_ his skin with lead. She doesn’t deserve, or get, the nicety of neat boundaries. It’s not as if he’s being a creep. Okay, he’d enjoy Elizabeth trembling with desire. But only so he can shoot her down.

Could be he says her name over often. But god, it’s fun to stretch it at her. The way she looks at him in response – agonised and era-addled – is. Yeah. It’s _good_.

*

Eventually he gets to musing ‘bout what he’d do next. Cos even in the privacy of his imagination, he ain’t trundling home to jerk off pathetically after taking her down.

He’d go out, pick up some chick, fuck her. Obviously. But he contemplates – face-to-face, yeah. Looking into _any_ other eyes right then’d work a treat. Would he kiss her, whoever, soft? He reckons – _yes_. Cos he can do gentle. Can play it, anyway.

So when he thinks on it, keeping up those returns – Elizabeth wanton, him walking – the gap following gets shaded on in. He’s screwing some nameless, faceless hot body against his sheets, bare. Which ain’t fucking likely, course. He never brings anyone home. And, really, he shoulda – has – learnt his lesson from that sketchy clinic visit with Elizabeth. But. It’s a fucking _fantasy_. Save condoms for mundane reality, jesus.

Couple times, he fills in the space with Rhea, instead of this beguiling nobody created for the purpose. That’s pleasant. Familiar. Bending Rhea over a kitchen surface. The stairs. Maybe her washing machine.

One of them occasions, Elizabeth wanders in, catching them at it. _He_ looks away, goes back to slamming his hips. Staring frontward. But Rhea’s head doesn’t turn. She’s still locking eyes with Elizabeth, he can only assume, and he– he– they– she– _he_ –

Rio doesn’t let himself indulge a repeat of that one.

*

Obviously he doesn’t _need_ her. Never has. But Elizabeth has some uses, and he reckons she’d be a boon at this particular meeting. Can explain the printing process in exhausting detail. Wrangle ‘em a larger investment. At least get it happening faster, smoother.

Only she’s a total fucking bitch about it when he informs her she’s coming along. Like she thinks she gets a fucking say, yet. Shit, she should be on stage with those comedy chops.

For a lengthy second, Rio’s fingers genuinely prick with the desire to _hit_ her. He’s not gonna, doesn’t go around sparking women. Well, except cousin Tina. But she’s a semi-pro boxer, with an irritating tendency to sock him _way_ too hard in the shoulder. And, frankly, he doesn’t care what his mama says – he’s _allowed_ to ping her back after the fifth one in a row.

He kinda suspects the absolute _strongest_ reason he won’t smack Elizabeth’s babble quiet is the knowledge that she’d probably, shit, chomp his nose clean off in retaliation though. Cos then where’d they fucking be, huh.

*

He sends Mick to drive her to the hotel. Cos he’s got better stuff to do. For one, not go totally fucking insane. Rio checked in hours ago, but he takes care to meet ‘em in the lobby. After nodding bye to Mick, Rio handles Elizabeth’s check-in. He booked her a room of her own, obviously. Not as nice as his suite, but a decent double. He’s a lot of things, but cheap ain’t one.

Rio supplies the alias he picked out himself – Oakley. He _thinks_ he sees Elizabeth scowl.

She’s clearly too used to him at her back. Doesn’t flinch or fluster while he’s crowding her at the door. Works the key card right on the first try. Doesn’t utter a fucking syllable when he follows her into the room.

Gives him a look that’s more puzzled than withering as he jumps straight onto the bed. She busies herself with some light unpacking.

He croons her name, sweet, and Elizabeth pops her head out the en suite – discernibly annoyed. Bad at hiding – well, he once believed _anything_. From him. Is better acquainted with actuality now. She’s definitely read enough of his tone to strap in for him being a total asshole. Shit, if you told him a year ago some proper and prim suburban bitch would appreciate his ins and outs so nice, he’d’ve called you a moron.

His gun’s at his hand. Not really in a _threatening_ manner, he’s just playing with the handle, while it lies on the night stand. But it’s seemingly sufficient to worry Elizabeth into obedience when he _suggests_ she come sit by him, watch a spot of TV. She sighs, doing as ordered plainly always an experience hard for her to swallow. Toddles towards the place he pats. Puts slightly deeper distance than strictly necessary between them, but not to the extent of leaning off the mattress or nothing.

He reels through channels, commenting animatedly. On – shit, any of it. Accent. Face. Dialogue. Font. Looks back once in a while to view her poetically irate clues. But then – he gets a bit caught up, expanding on the plot flaws in this episode of MacGyver, he’s seen it _enough_ times. Finally turns from the screen and. She’s lying down, curled a step before foetal. Eyes shut. Breath even.

Elizabeth’s – at least doing a fairly good impression of sleep. He’s never seen her perform the real version for comparison, is at a disadvantage for assessing. Rio clears his throat. Increases the volume with a harsh stab at the remote.

Not a stir. But then – a light snore. It seems mildly preposterous; with her hundred and one kids or whatever, shouldn’t she wake at the thinnest provocation? Then again, maybe she’s learnt to snatch her zzzs however she can, like he’s had to. Or perhaps she’s bullshitting him. Tryna get a rise.

She looks, weirdly, older. Face scrunched, brow furrowed. Her closed eyes are moving, as if across a hard to parse page. He swears he can _hear_ her pulse, too speedy. Shit, there’s always been something _off_ with this freak.

Rio reaches, tugs _heavy_ on her hair.

“Bzuht!” Elizabeth snaps into life, shaking shock away with rapid head flounces and nostril wiggles.

She just keeps on _staring_ at him. He turns back to the crockpot infomercial. Cracks his spine. Is struck by sudden inspiration.

Says, “I’m gonna take a shower.”

He reckons she’s glaring, but he ain’t checking. Rolls off his side of the bed, gathers his gun.

Rio hears her ask something – sounds like it’s about where his stuff is at – but he doesn’t respond. Buries her voice under his jaunty hums.

Lets the bathroom door slam behind him, before he locks it with a snappy _click_. Takes. His. Fucking. Time. Decants generous helpings of several of her products, too. Twists about the spray.

Pulls his underwear back on, after. Is about to just wrap a towel around his waist when he spies – it. Soon he’s grinning at his reflection above the sink, splashing extra water at himself, soaking Elizabeth’s silk robe, tied round him.

Her face, once he steps out whistling is – _well_. A whole lotta hints. Agape. Aghast maybe also. And Rio catches her eyes tripping before she plucks her focus upwards. So he saunters over.

“No,” she pleads, voice small and weak. Approaching breaking. Hand slung vaguely his way, eyes averted and resembling at least quarter-shut.

He shuffles onto the bed, about where he’d been earlier. Feasibly intervening into her region.

She scrambles away instantly, still looking entirely horrified.

He’s feeling – _slightly_ smug.

But then Elizabeth mumbles, all mournful, “You’re so wet.”

She doesn’t look abashed, even when he stares in her direction for protracted moments. Somehow she can’t recognise the entendre. Might have no memory of ever catching those words from his lip.

So he vindictively wriggles further – sopping the bedding best he can.

She flees for the chair.

He stretches out. Switches his attention back to the television; denies her it.

When he _does_ cave, glances for her, Elizabeth’s lids are slumped, respiration chilly again. Has she genuinely returned to sleep, chassis crumpled at that awkward angle? God, she is a _serious_ trip.

He studies the tableau a few moments. Waits for a telltale sign of bullshittery – but none’s forthcoming.

Rio hoists himself up, fluid. Ambles slightly nearer. But still. Nothing. So he just shrugs, heads into the bathroom to fish the rest of his stuff outta pockets. Leaves the clothes strewn about the floor, certain it’ll annoy her. After a second thought, he robs her moisturiser too.

She doesn’t so much as twitch or peep as he’s making tracks. He manages to close the door rather soft, even juggling the cacophony of items.

Let Elizabeth wake disoriented, convinced he’s hidden under the bed or some shit. _Ha_.

*

She’s actually fairly good during the meeting. Cracks a couple corny jokes, gets everyone in a decent mood. Well, he can tell she’d be edging ‘em there anyhow, from the style to their gazings at her shape but, whatever.

That ain’t important.

He doesn’t compliment Elizabeth, after. That ego’s already quite fucking outsized enough. And he loves knowing how hungry she is, combined with the way she tries to hide it. For praise. For the entirety. Might be she doesn’t even discern how deep her appetite churns.

She doesn’t ask 'bout the robe, nor cream, or offer back his outfit. Acts for all the world like nothing happened. Par for the course.

*

Rio continues encroaching upon her air. Tucks locks behind ears. Keeps on frisking her – generally nowhere particularly _interesting_. But a condescending pat at her upper arm here, a knocking of knees there.

She gives him almost zero response. Tamps and tamps and tamps and tamps and tamps. She’s getting better at it. He remains undeterred. In fact, might be that that tells him he’s right.

*

The daydream – Elizabeth needy then put in her place, him pressed into and against literally anyone else in the aftermath – starts wearing thin. Used too frequent. Stitches stretched beyond capacity. And Rio drifts to – other possibilities.

Reasons, he _could_ fuck her. Technically speaking. He wouldn’t. But he could. There’s nobody, no thing, to actually stop him after all.

So he experiments with that vision a spell or two, just to keep shit fresh. Elizabeth folded over some furnishing in the ugly back room of her shop. Or that picnic bench out front. The hood of her car. Maybe his hand smooshing her face down, away. Him thumping at her – fast, hard, uncaring. No matter how familiar with him at her rear she seems now – that’d strike alive with promise again, subsequent.

And, yeah, the idea of abandoning her unfulfilled, his come dripping from her, is fleetingly delighting. Or – no. Perhaps he shouldn’t even give her that much. Might pull out at the last moment, spatter her ass, else some clothing instead. Cos he is certain she loves the feel of him– _That_. So, maybe it wasn’t about _him_ , but the patter she always groaned and groaned when he was spurting inside her, long after she’d finished climaxing… Could be plain ego, but. He would swear he heard her gasp out his name, at least once. Every. Fucking. Time.

So, yes. An engaging notion, admittedly. But Elizabeth’s _tricksy_. And he recognises all too well how easy it is to get her rocketing apart. He really ain’t sure anyone ever gave it to her right, ahead of him. She’s eternally so eager, so close, so fundamentally needing. She’d probably find a way to snatch an orgasm, despite the worst circumstances.

And – okay it’s definitely vanity or some shit, _but_. He can’t say it’s an entirely contenting concept, leaving her with even the slimmest belief that he _couldn’t_ get her off. If he wanted. That he’s lesser since, in any way. Ain’t steady that might not indeed cure her craving.

So – fine. _That_ ’s out.

But there’re alternate options. Spilling onto one of her soft hands; skin there like she ain’t ever worked a day. Fucking her stupid goddamn tits. Or, and this one’s a pleasant visual all by itself, Elizabeth on her knees ahead of him. Fumbling his pants open.

The last one sticks. The allure of shutting her the absolute fuck up for a while certainly adds some headiness.

At first, he reckons he’d be benevolent. Or. Close, anyway. Allow her to dip her fingers into her panties, herself, as he fucks her mouth. While she’s moaning round what he won’t give her, elsewhere. That that’d be plenty fun.

But then he decides – nah. Better to ban it. Maybe before she even tries. Cos she irrefutably doesn’t deserve any joy. And he concludes he could get her that cock-frenzied, enough she’d do anything. _Anything_. Her banking on how he’d reward her next. And he’s – okay, not precisely sure what he’d do with an Elizabeth, one reality-tainted, begging to blow him, staring up at him with those deceptive eyes after.

But that doesn’t score. Cos it’s only an indulgent fancy. He _could_. But he wouldn’t.

*

And it’s all – going pretty fine, actually. Since he grudgingly agreed to pay Elizabeth a pittance, and she’s generally acting less bizarre. Money rolls in. Mick rolls through, keeping an eye.

The tasks Rio sets her vary, and sometimes she’s still a total shrew about it. But it never takes long to intimidate or blackmail or whatever her into behaving.

Until he goes to collect, Mickless like he’s been making an increased habit of lately.

She’s too smiley, duplicity even more obvious than usual. It sets his teeth on edge, his shoulders tensely askew.

Rio sighs, mostly out his nose. Folds his arms, loose. The fingers of one hand screw round his elbow. He tilts head _and_ eyebrow.

She breaks.

“I don’t have it,” Elizabeth admits via dull almost-whispers. It’s not precisely pleading, but. Zonal.

He tuts. Reaches into his waistband.

“I don’t _quite_ have it all,” she hastens to amend.

Moves _towards_ him, hand stretching. Suggesting she thinks he can find, shit, anything in her presence vaguely appeasing.

He gnaws at the inside of his lip, one eye in particular narrowing at her.

Pulls out the gun. It’s a loose grip.

She stops still at least. Doesn’t back up.

His eyes flick, taking in her appearance. It’s subtle, the difference. But, see, he comprehends her current normal. She’s dressed down, momified perhaps – might be an attempt to draw mercy. Faded jeans, lax at her hips. A _t-shirt_ , casual neck plunging. Feet only socked.

For a moment he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Concerned that if he opens his mouth a copy of one of Marcus’ actually pretty impressive tiger growls may stunt forth.

“I’m done,” Rio says – is rewarded with the sight of Elizabeth’s gulp. “Playing around.”

It’s his own fault, he’s aware. Chance upon lenient chance he’s allowed her. But Elizabeth gonna be fucking trained, finally. _Drilled_.

Her head spasms forwards – twice, in rapid succession.

“I just need a day,” she says, like that’s supposed to be a reasonable kind of olive branch. “Something came up with the kids–”

“I don’t care,” he snaps. And it’s legit gratifying to note the truth of it, once his interruption’s made real.

Her lips judder, but she doesn’t speak.

Then she steps even further for him which is just–

“I need a day.” Her voice is firm. Not in a demanding guise exactly, closer to sincere certainty. And that slick face is mostly cleared up.

“Oh you do?” he makes it catty as _fuck_. “And what do I get?”

He thinks about staking some unseemly claim – 150% interest, temporary residence in her house, firstborn as collateral – just to fuck with her; get her shrieking.

But then she’s fluttering her lashes up at him, like she mistakes him a witless teen – head turning from sense at the merest suggestion of pussy.

A dim realisation: he should be pointing the gun _at_ her. Not cradling it casual between ‘em. But, what’d be the fucking aim. She gets him heated enough he’s sure he could squeeze it easy. There’s a petulant dumbass voice at the back of his skull that refuses to wanna though.

Elizabeth wets her lips, obnoxiously intentional. Fiddles with the buttons at his cuff.

“What do you want?” she asks, sounding – husky.

He kinda can’t believe she’s trying it. But also. It ain’t strictly a shock.

“Oh,” he says, delighted despite the discrepancies, “you that desperate for someone to fuck you?” At the sight of Elizabeth’s cracking lips, he bolts on a derisive, “Properly.”

Her cheeks _crimson_.

The problem is, it seems to shunt her down a more sensible route. He sees her, presumably not many, brain cells scramble; regroup.

“How about,” she begins, breaks off to fake cough. Squirms her eyes, not looking off from his. Floods determination through her every corner. “Something just. For you.”

Then, proving she thinks everyone in the world is as lacking in nuance as she is, Elizabeth grabs his unoccupied wrist, drags it deliberately towards her, up.

She – she _very_ purposefully plants her lips around his pointer finger, teeth gripping knuckle. Cants her head leftwards with a plausibly _bored_ expression. Like: stop playing, hurry up. Flicks her tongue up the underside of his finger. Twice. Then starts swirling the tip instead.

It’s all a bit. _Tangling_. Unreality twisting with its opposite. A tender of exactly what he wanted. But not the right way. Each blood vessel in and around his dick twinges, faultless unison.

“Twenty-four hours,” Rio says. It’s a question. Sort of.

She’s about to nod, he sees it. Her head pulls up, teeth grasping firmer with it.

But then she opens wider, shoves at his finger with her plump tongue till it’s basically just resting against canine.

“Forty-eight.”

He snuffles what might be a laugh.

Slides the pistol home. Keeps his hand at his lower back a moment, Lets his eyes lazily trail her.

Sighs out, “Fine.” Like this is torture. Not that it isn’t. Okay – not explicitly.

It’s acceptable, right. Safe to take her up on. Well. _Safer_. Doesn’t suggest he actually desires her. Cos c’mon. Who hates getting head.

She looks some mix of triumphant and apprehensive, with a side of surprised. He used to appreciate that on her – specially with that lust sprinkled in.

The reality’s different to how he’s been envisioning it. Better. Worse. Both.

The one occasion she’d tried it, with him flat on his back in her bed, he’d coaxed her away – ignored her muffled protests. Cos he’d had other plans that needed enacting that _fucking_ moment. And a foolish belief there’d be time for it all. A delusion she snapped him from mere hours later.

But now. That ain’t a risk – moon-eyed nonsense; the urge to bury himself in her splayed, welcoming cunt.

It’s – good. Objectively. Which ain’t a problem. Just. Whatever. She’s always been a smug bitch.

He doesn’t look. Or, not much. Trains his sights at a spot of ceiling. But his widened eyes do zero down every so often. Which is only an automatic homing instinct. To tight, wet suction enveloping him. Tongue teasing. Blunt back teeth scraping a bit, and he’s normally not a massive fan of that but it’s her and–

He forces his eyes to roll back high. Issue is, in his imaginings he was perpetually glaring low at her, during. Watching her take it. Her forbidden fingers twitching with desire. But the situation’s spun somewhere else. Her hands remain stubborn at his thighs.

Rio concentrates on inhaling, exhaling. Wants to spool out the proceedings. Needs her jaw aching. Elizabeth convinced he might never come.

His hips jolt, involuntarily. She doesn’t miss a beat. And, shit, the obscene way her lips slide when he pulls his cock out and in is– Right. Rio shuts his eyes. Drives incisors into his bottom lip. Feels his orgasm building, ballooning. Stealing his senses. Is certain he’s narrowed to just one part – the one Elizabeth’s panting balmy round. There’s a fine sweat at his cheekbones. His fingers can’t cut the flexing.

She’s tonguing a maddening undulating pattern below, totally off-tempo. And fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s _really_ doing it for him.

He doesn’t warn her. Figures she’s following the plot with how she speeds. One of her hands has moved, a couple of fingers tickle at his sac.

He’s – tight. Taut. Strung.

Rio rebelliously considers dragging himself from her mouth. Making a mess elsewhere. Aspiring for eye or hair, childish as that might be. Or down her front – stain her clothes, spatter her taunting cleavage. But it’s too _good_ , and. He pulses into her throat. She doesn’t cease sucking till he’s done.

He doesn’t help her up after, obviously. Ain’t eager to hold fucking hands. Is staring heavenwards anyway as he rights himself, re-zips, belts.

She makes a show of smacking her palms together, rubbing aside dirt – real or imagined, he doesn’t know – once she’s up.

He does want to ask. How she’s feeling. About the damp situation between her thighs. If her nipples are so hard they hurt. Whether she's mastered the meaning of forty-eight hours.

Instead he supplies a short nod – which Elizabeth, for some nonsense reason, _returns_. As if they’re co-conspirators at some illicit cabal. He departs without a word.

*

For the next few days, he’s riding high. At the thought of her embarrassment. On the sharp swivel of her face once he started spilling. Over how it sounded a lil like she was moaning too, at the end.

He deploys Mick on collection, alone. Mostly cos – Rio uncharacteristically doesn’t feel like being quite that mammoth a dick, rubbing her nose direct in it. Forcing her to engage with – whatever. What happened, that messy bargain.

Mick meets him at the warehouse. Smacks down the boxes with the express right typa nod.

Rio exhales too vigorous, air whistling through teeth. He doesn’t ask Mick how it went, not for much beyond the fact that he never really needs to. The two of ‘em can communicate paragraphs with a well-placed glance, plenty further with the correct gesture.

But Mick’s apparently struck by a real chatty mood. Starts going, “She said–”

Rio emits – _something_. A cross between a groan and a snarl, maybe.

Turns on his heels, sharpish. He coulda _swore_ he saw Mick fucking grinning before he showed the guy his tail.

Rio, just barely, ignores the impetus to stuff his fingers in his ears as he’s making his exit. Given no one’s talking it’d probably register a tad… mad.

*

The situation doesn’t exactly improve from there.

Partly cos he gets to worrying – if he’s commenced a complication beyond what oughta be chewed. What if she pulls that trick again. Hell, aims for it each week. Comes up short over and over. Finds excuses to owe him. He can’t allow – that. Surely. Nah, _surely_. Specially since who fathoms what Elizabeth’d do with him heartily distracted. Would likely filch his weapon, turn it on him. Shit. He has got to start being smarter. ‘Bout her. Let a learning _sink_.

And Elizabeth. Well. She definitely stands too near. Her chest bumps his. And what’s he supposed to do? Back away, intimidated? Not fucking happening. She tweaks at his sleeve one time. Another, it’s a light kick to the side of his foot when he’s deep in his phone, ignoring her.

He dreams of her that night. Frowning mean at what might be a scuff on the edge of his shoe too close to slumber musta been the problem, tangled a knot that floated into his subconscious.

It’s her hollowed cheeks, pristine mouth action. Not the turn in that funky back room. The afternoon in her sheets rather. Only it doesn’t unfold consistent with history. He doesn’t steer her afield – doesn’t insist he gotta taste her right now. Settle her upon his face, latch onto her clit and work his fingers around, inside. It doesn’t culminate with him throwing her down, so her head’s hanging off the foot of the bed, her pelvis propped on a pillow, him fucking her back onto him – over and over and over. Before they do it all again.

No. Instead he lets her suck him to completion. Encourages her. Strokes her chin. Clasps her hair towards the end. Not really dragging her about, but she’s being unfairly minxy ‘bout the whole thing, and he knows she knows he knows–

Rio wakes, predictably stiff and vibrating; angrier than he knew he could be about it. There’s a second or three when he reckons he might be able to will the situation away, but the urge is _pressing_ , his hand moves without his say-so. He wields himself with rough striping motions, insistently pictures his anonymous no one. But he recognises the curve of that ass and – fuck it.

It’s not real and who fucking _cares_ what pops in his head. He doesn’t even deliberate on grabbing for them pearls or the moisturiser or ridiculing robe or ripped up panties. Has lost that type penchant since – just _since_. But the awareness that they’re housed nearby is that same comforting-irritating combo it forever is, only _wider_. So he gives in, for a dang minute. Allows himself to fuck into that silly cunt, clenching her hip so tight, levering her body how he wants. Transfers her _taking_ it to this bed instead, in his mind.

Savours _exactly_ how she’d squeeze and squelch on his cock, just how to get her there too. Lets his memory supply the guttural whines and croaks she always looses when he comes in her. She revels in being _filled_ like that, he’s confident on it. Elizabeth left her sodden thong on a bathroom floor, wandered back to that idiot husband, after what didn’t look a particularly thorough attempt at cleaning _his_ spunk outta her. He’s pretty positive it was trickling her thighs while she tethered a robe round herself and tried to throw him from her life – as if she could stay away, pfft. Consider also her thousand children, and the fact that Rio’s never met anyone in his whole existence less fucking capable of learning their goddamn lesson. He throbs. Except for– Well. Except for– Fuckit, he doesn’t wanna _think_.

Flicks along images. Elizabeth licking the tip of his dick, eyeing him too coy. Lifting her dress with a bowed, turned head – begging for his touch, his body, his anything. The flavour of her pussy fresh in his mouth, while he yanked her, yelping, stern up his cock. The first time he ever slid into Elizabeth, pinning her between his limbs and the wall – how fast he got her clinging and mewing. When she _bit_ his lip and. And.

(everyfuckingtime)

_Ughhhhn_.

After, he thinks: shower. On repeat. Can’t seem to make his legs work though.

Stirs in the morning scratching at dried remnants on his belly. Strips the sheets he only put on there yesterday, disgusted.

*

He told Mick not to bother joining for this one, with a stark shake of his head. It could not be clearer that that was a lapse.

It’s – well subtle transparently ain’t the term. Feeble, maybe. Whatever Elizabeth’s tried to do to the familiar back room ain’t working right. It smells a bit like a Sephora employee been guerilla bombing the place. A few candles are flickering weird, casting the site extra ugly. There’s terrible music droning low.

“Do you want a drink?” Elizabeth offers in a fashion she probably miscounts as breezy.

He tells her nah, but isn’t severely astounded at being ignored. Not by this antagonist.

A tumbler of amber liquid, unmistakably lower shelf, is stationed in front of him. His throat itches for its relief. It’d be easy – to throw it back in one. Slam the empty thing down. Demand more. More. More. Polish pours off, one before the other. He shoves his hands behind him.

Before he can ask after the money, Elizabeth fetches them boxes. Slaps ‘em forth, past a fleeting foot flail.

It’d be obvious enough she’s had a few drinks, even without the lipstick smeared on the glass precariously nestled at the crook of her elbow. Which she extracts, suckles from.

His eyeballs rock a little as he debates – askin’. What the fuck is up. But – hmm. He pulls his arms forth, goes for the tacky boxes.

His progress pauses where Elizabeth says, “Ahem.”

Actually _says_ it, like she’s an alien recently dropped to earth, who’s only read about throat clearing in manuscripts. Which doubtless ain’t the worst hypothesis, considering quite a lot of her behaviour. And, really, she’s a distracting enough package that–

Elizabeth’s scowling like she might kick him again, palpably aware his attention’s drifting. He has the thought, self-involved bitch, right decent – but it’s scanty in vitriol.

Rio puffs his shoulders.

She steps round, to his side of the table. Finishes far too close, before beginning to unbutton her jacket. And if he reckoned the bare legs were bad enough, what that starts revealing is far worse. She’s got her apron on, doesn’t look to be much else. There’s _distinct_ insinuations of nipples underneath.

Rio tips his head up up up. But staring at this ceiling ain’t a mass better, not with the association.

“ _Ahem_ ,” she says again, spikier.

So, fine. He grants her a glance. The jacket’s still on, though entirely undone.

“I want–” she begins; splinters off, clearly awkward. “I want _to_.”

Her hand flutters, looping from her to him. The suggestion’s not particularly mistakable, even if he’s never been propositioned quite so staidly. He’s half expecting her to fork over a form on a clipboard shortly.

“Oh yeah?” he drawls.

Elizabeth nods, firm. Cautiously pleased – probably just at him appearing to understand.

“What’s the offer?” Boredom fills his words.

Her head curves back, hair bouncing as feature after feature rumples in confusion.

He rubs his thumb and forefinger together – the universal, for _humans_ at least, sign for money.

She scoffs. “I’m not paying for – sex.”

“Oh so it’s okay when you make me do it.” He’s sure his face is the picture of perfect innocence. Bats his lashes a few goes too.

“That’s not. What happened.”

Rio pops a brow, provides his very best sympathy-for-the-stupid look.

“That was for _ti_ –” but she breaks off, flusters. Conspicuously remembers the old adage.

Elizabeth blushes brighter than he’s yet seen, and Rio has. Had some _fun_ instances with that. Got her red and sweating and incomprehensible and– Well. Never mind all that.

Cos _this_? This he recognises how to play. Had abundant practice runs.

“Well what do you want.” Her arms are crossed about her chest, which only serves to push her tits at him. She doesn’t seem purposeful with it now, not attempting seductive, more curious than anything.

Maybe she’s expecting an assistive lowball. Fucking lunatic.

He pretends to think on it.

“I’d take your van.”

Rio’s not anticipating what she says next. Purely cos it’s too intensely obtuse, even for her. Which is sure saying something.

“You like my car?” There’s a sinful trickle of pride there.

“ _Nah_.”

“Well I don’t think it’s worth _that_ much?”

Jesus, how this woman was ever running a dealership is genuinely fucking _beyond_.

“Mm,” Rio says. Assumes his unimpressed squint has simply gotta be adequate to convey how he judges her very professional assessment.

“So why do you want it…?”

“Cos it’d inconvenience you.” He drops the words with a giant cheesy smile.

She reels like she was backhanded, just about refrains from audibly spluttering.

“Think of them poor kids,” he adds, in an approximation of a sorry tone. “Having to haul ass all over on them lil legs.”

“You can’t have my car,” Elizabeth tells him. Like that’s a statement she actually needs to make. God, she’s an awful lot of things, but he’s never much accused her of not being entertaining.

Rio gathers the boxes. Fixes an unkind grin upon his face. Prongs his lower lip out.

Says, “Well sweetheart, I don’t think you can afford me.”

Leaves laughing. He hopes she cries.

*

He does intend to play it right, head on out. Only he’s got the cash on him, wants to set that down first. Cos it’s the smart decision. And then Rio’s eager for a shower, certain he stinks of perfume and wax and, just, _sadness_.

So what, really, if he ends up jerking off in there. It’s nobody’s business but his own. The mess descends the drain, leached like the pressure off his shoulders. Along with what he was pondering. Which mighta involved a squeeze with an apron, and twirling her about and– But so _what_.

He ain’t gonna indulge it – or her – again. He _could_. He’s solely saying, ultimately, there’s nothing to actually prevent him. He won’t though. He won’t.

**Author's Note:**

> I am intending for this series to have a third part (but it's probably not going to be the next couple of things I write).
> 
> The titles for the series and its parts are all from Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is a Season) by Pete Seeger.


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